


The Calling (alt)

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Endings [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Gen, Gen Work, The Calling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 12:15:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3326903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because I had to write another version.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calling (alt)

Zevran was glad that he’d woken up early that morning. He opened his eyes to see Theron creeping out of the bedroom, bow slung over his back. A common enough occurrence - the ranger often got up before dawn if he intended to spend the day tracking and hunting in the forests. But this time his pack was slung over his other shoulder, clearly full in anticipation for a long journey.

Theron wasn’t planning to come back at nightfall.

The Antivan shot from the bed, forcing his body to wake up and move even quicker than it normally did. There was a hissed curse from the next room, and then the sound of the front door shutting.

“ _Braska_!” Only pausing to pull a pair of trousers on, Zevran hurried after the Dalish elf into the cold pre-dawn light.

“Theron!”

No answer.

“ _Mierda-_ Theron! Theron Mahariel!”

Zevran gritted his teeth as he watched the black-haired elf keep walking as if he was deaf. Worse than the dog had been.

“Warden!” He yelled.

The ranger halted instantly.

“And where do you think you are going?” The Antivan called, walking down the track after the other elf so he wouldn’t have to yell as loudly, even though there were no other houses for several miles in all directions. He was glad to see that Theron remained still, even if his back was to the Antivan.

“The village.” The ranger answered feebly, and both knew it was a lie.

“You have been acting strange for months, do you think I am a blind fool?” Zevran didn’t bother to hide his roused anger now. If this was to happen outside with a distance between them, better than it never happening at all. “Where are you going?” He repeated firmly, staring at the back of the ranger’s head, wishing that he would at least deign to look back over his shoulder. If he _was_ going to leave, Zevran could hardly stop the man from doing what he wished. A decade was a long time to stay with one person.

“Somewhere you cannot follow this time, _lath_.”

Zevran let out a bark of laughter, as cold as he was starting to feel.

“Is that so? You depart in a cloud of romantic Dalish mystery, fully intending to leave me to wake up to a cold and empty bed one morning?”

Theron was silent and still didn’t even glance at him, and that only served to fan the flames of the former Crow’s anger, made his words tumble out quicker as his accent strengthened.

“I cannot be at your side for this? I was not at your side when you faced the Archdemon either, I seem to recall.”

That made Theron pivot on one foot to face him, every line of his body tensed defensively, as if he expected a fight.

“I did that to keep you _safe_ , Zevran.”

“So you thought I wouldn’t be able to help you kill a dragon?” Zevran snapped, folding his arms over his bare chest. He was glad it was midsummer, rather than winter, but the winds were still cold this early in the day.

“Yes. No. I… _Fenedhis_.” Theron answered, stumbling over his words. He let out a frustrated noise, hands tightening into fists. His mind worked. “I didn’t want you to see me die, if Morrigan’s ritual hadn’t worked.” He finished after a few minutes of Zevran’s unimpressed, expectant glare.

Zevran blinked, surprise lessening his anger for a second.

“So what is it this time? Are you sneaking off to perform another heroic deed to save Thedas, without even bothering to bid me goodbye?”

Theron let out a loud, terse sigh, and stepped closer.

“No. I can’t tell you.” Was his response.

“Why not? We have been open with each other before, why should now be any different?”

“Because it’s not my burden to share. Riordan told me-”

“Riordan? The Grey Warden who died at Denerim?”

“Yes.”

“This is some kind of Grey Warden _mierda_?”

The ranger’s lack of response was all the answer Zevran needed. He stepped closer, and made to grab Theron’s wrist, but the ranger had anticipated the blond’s possible actions enough to step back.

“So they swore you to secrecy like Morrigan tried to?” The former Crow asked, and he saw Theron’s jaw tighten in irritation and old pain.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then why are you sneaking off in the night like a Templar from a whorehouse?”

“Because I didn’t want _this_ to happen!” Theron answered, sweeping his arm out to gesture at the two of them teetering wildly on the brink of an argument.

“And in your mind leaving like this without giving me _any_ form of explanation at all is better?” Zevran asked, tilting his head and tightening his folded arms.

“None of this is ideal for me.” Theron sighed, shoulders drooping. He rubbed the back of his neck, struggled to hide a wince of pain. “If I had a choice, I would have told you years ago. I’m sorry, Zevran, but...” The Dalish elf turned away, took another step back, further down the track. Further away from Zevran, and the life they’d managed to scrape together.

“No.” Zevran said, almost before he could stop himself. He couldn’t stand there and watch Theron just walk away. “Tell me where you are going, and why.” He added, calmly and firmly as he looked at the Dalish elf.

“Orzammar.” Theron finally admitted, looking away first, as he always did. “The Deep Roads.”

Zevran frowned.

“I thought you despised it there.”

“Exactly.”

“And yet you are going?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” He asked, feeling lost.

Theron looked back at him then, and shifted his weight uneasily, jawline twitching as he clenched and unclenched his teeth.

“ _Mi amor_. Tell me, please.”

Zevran hated how his voice wavered like a maiden’s. Hated how it made him sound and feel insecure and vulnerable. He kept staring at Theron, willing the ranger not to look away again.

“I need to, Zevran. I’m…” The Dalish elf let out a heavy sigh. “I’m going to die.”

It was the first time he’d said it aloud, or even acknowledged it anywhere outside of his head. The nightmares, the aches, bruises and feverishness that pained him even now, were progressing quicker than he’d expected. His Calling. He’d been planning this quiet escape for weeks, hoping to get away before Zevran grew too suspicious. He’d underestimated the blond’s perceptiveness, however.

“You…”

Theron looked away, and closed his eyes.

“Eventually, I will. I go to the Deep Roads, and go down killing as many darkspawn as I can. That’s what the Grey Wardens _do_ . If not, I will grow weaker and more corrupted until I may as well be a darkspawn myself.” He explained in a low, quiet voice. _Like Tamlen_. “A blaze of glory with no-one to witness it, or eroded slowly and painfully.”

“And you do not wish for me to accompany you again? To a place you hate and where you will end up dying alone and in the dark, surrounded by the stuff of nightmares?”

Theron shook his head numbly, and started when Zevran gripped tightly at his shoulders.

“Did you give any thought as to what I would do after you slipped away?” Zevran began, but he sighed. “No, this is not about me.” He muttered to himself, watching the ranger closely. “But I cannot allow you to vanish like this in some kind of martyring self-exile. Grey Warden or no, you deserve a more fitting end than that.”

Theron was hesitant to nod in agreement.

“If I had died with the Archdemon, they were to entomb me at Weisshaupt. It was a city elf that ended the Fourth Blight; Garahel. An archer too. I would have been buried alongside him.” He let out a humourless chuckle. “I find that rather ironic. But being buried in a tomb… It is not the Dalish way.”

“Neither is being left to rot in the Deep Roads, at best. You have suffered through enough cold stone and the thaigs already. There is no need to return and make that journey again.” Zevran said.

“What can I do instead? Allow myself to become a ghoul? You saw Tamlen. What do I do?” Theron asked, closing his eyes and taking a steady breath. “Ignore the fact it hurts to exert myself, more and more every day? That the things I dream about are growing genuinely frightening, how I’m starting to see them when I’m awake?” The ranger was trembling, only slightly, but with his hands on his broad shoulders Zevran could feel the shivers running through him.

“Why have you never told me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I have room on my head for a few grey hairs, I am sure.” Zevran shrugged dismissively, trying to smile.

Theron stared at him, grey eyes wide in the dim light.

“Might I suggest an alternative, _mi amor_? We go back inside and continue talking in the warmth and light as the sun rises, I help you unpack your things and then we go about our lives. Then, when you feel ready and willing one day in the future, I will give you something to ease your passing, as gentle and painless as falling asleep.” The Antivan suggested gently, keeping his hands on Theron’s shoulders.

“You would do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Theron looked down at his feet, and Zevran slowly lowered his hands back to his sides. He watched carefully, but the Dalish elf walked past him, back towards their small hut rather than further down the path, to Zevran’s relief. The blond followed.

Theron had already shrugged his pack and bow off when Zevran pushed the front door open, and the ranger busied himself with unpacking his things as methodically as he must have packed them. The blond watched, aware of the silence as the black-haired elf paced the house, flitting through the doorway to the bedroom and back.

“I still don’t want to die.”

“No-one does, _mi amor_.” _I did, once, but those days are behind me._

“What will you do after…?”

Zevran sighed, sitting down in one of the chairs by the hearth.

“I do not know. Perhaps go to Antiva and sow more chaos and dissention among the Crows?”

Theron nodded.

“You seemed to have fun last time you did that.”

“Mm, yes. The offers of replacing one Master or another, however, were not so fun. The rest are cowards, wanting to bide their time and have me within easy stabbing or poisoning distance once they recover themselves. And the idea of making countless recruits undergo the Crow training as I did…” Zevran shook his head, staring down at the threadbare rug one of the Dalish clans had given them as a housewarming gift, worn halla and wolves endlessly chasing each other around the hem. He had said long ago that he was free of the Crows, after Taliesen lay dead in a back alley of Denerim. Of course, that had not been entirely true.

The Crows had still haunted him, tried to assess how insignificant a threat he was in Ferelden until he and Theron had gone to Antiva and began to unpick threads once they had grown bored of the honeymoon and holidaying. The Crows were good at their job, but it was slavery, plain and simple. Bought as a child, never even paid for his successes except as an afterthought, but consistently and thoroughly punished for his failures. He did not want any of the faceless unknown children from Antiva’s slums and whorehouses to end up as he had. Not many would be lucky enough to be spared by a target.

He was truly better now, much better than going back to all those old ways Theron had patiently coaxed him out of, the ones the Crows had beaten him into. If he had ever accepted a role of leadership, he would not be the man he was now, or even the one he had once been. He would be as merciless towards the recruits under his watch as the Masters had been to him, to Taliesen, Rinna, the countless others that had fallen by the waysides. That was not the man Zevran ever wanted to be.

Theron perched on the arm of the chair with a heavy sigh, jolting the Antivan from his steadily darkening thoughts. The ranger’s eyes were fixed on the middle-distance, deep in thought with a faintly worried expression.

“Are… You okay?” Zevran ventured.

“I’m dying.” The ranger answered flatly, looking across the room at nothingness beyond the wall. He could feel it in his bones, separate from the aches and bruises. The corruption that was a hissing, alluring song in his veins.

“So that is a no, I take it?”

Theron shook his head, and blinked himself back to the present enough to look at Zevran.

“Would it be depressing if I counted the days?”

“Highly.”

“Right.”

Theron’s hands were resting in his lap; Zevran reached out and placed one of his own over them, and he gave the ranger a reassuring smile.

“You have life left in you yet, no? It would be a waste to squander it moping and discussing unpleasant matters.”

The Dalish elf glanced down at their hands, and smiled sadly in response, grey eyes gleaming.


End file.
